Poetry of the Non-Prose Kind

Familia Crest

Rose Knapp

One   Medieval value
Papal   Borges Loyalty
Submit Two Prince Jon
Pre printing press Brut
Of course   of coarse
Finally fallacio   is free
From bastards &fallacy

To Burn the Night

Christopher Morgan

from “Two Young Lovers”

It takes

This   all day
low point

ignore the hate
he paid for it

the money   extravagant
his language

I   see
the man
and walk
down   toward   him.

I have
come back
to burn the   night

the work
won’t be safe for
the children

I’m sorry   Listen.
this mess is
the only home I’ve ever had

[view original erasure]

A Sharp Startle

Christopher Morgan

from “The Pink Lady”

distinct   the feeling
I could neither move nor speak

he was gone.

I had   fallen silent
as if
That night
had actually happened.

I stood out

my experience,
a sharp   startle

he   terrified that

My   experience   was
a sensation of being followed
at night

mother experienced this many times
It became   common for each of us

[view original erasure]


Karen George

pollen glasses dark
rust shimmers the universe
lies charcoal the nest


Greg Lyons

A leech floats along a pond
like a man’s flaccid penis
who is enjoying a hot bath
and the sight of his member
poising. A leech, though,
has circular saw teeth, genetic
hardware for creating instant
glory holes. Its spit and mucus
slobbering—sticky and wispy
like Jell-O shots—seals out
any feeling as each frill
of its head distends and
ebbs. Gulp. Gulp.


Greg Lyons

Through the window of a childhood
home, crickets filled the air with bubbles
that they plucked, stridulations. A rapid-fire
of vanishing rainbows popping
into chirplets. My grandma used to sing
 Good night, sleep tight
 don’t let the bed bugs bite
 if they do, promise
 to catch a few
 and we’ll cook ‘em up
 for the morning.
On a clear summer night, the wind keyed
across the trees, rolling the leaves
like a tambourine. Jingles falling over
dreams. Bubbles floating across the bath
of my eyes, cavitations. I was an audience. Why
wasn’t that enough?

Tuvan Lullaby

Sarah B. Puschmann

Because he can no longer sleep, Roy spends nights
seated against the fridge, which is the least of all
the strangeness that has bubbled up like swamp gas
since he lost his lover. He sees a spider with cinnamon
stick legs, two city workers shove the sun down a manhole,
and other such delusions. Besides rest, Roy just wants
to walk a bridge that doesn’t turn to dragon. He doesn’t mind
the Tuvans, though, three men in silk who huddle close
and sing from their throats. It is a comfort to have them near
when a radish becomes his lover’s eye and blinks.
At the Laundromat, Roy’s Tuvans rescue him
from a Mariachi serenade, blare tone over tone
under tone until the Mariachis stagger out, stunned.
And although it’s unlike a delusion to cook a stew
and wash the pots, that’s what his Tuvans do back
at what has become Roy’s apartment, his alone,
a sight stranger than the rest. At night the Tuvans lay
Roy down, sit on his bed and sing of horses or melt water
or sun, Roy doesn’t know the words or how to sleep
but the song is a hard bridge and his steps steady.


Allison Adair

It doesn’t matter who answers
the phone, it’s the same forecast:
snow following snow,

road closed followed by Jessie
returning to John, wrist healed
and you can hardly tell anything

went wrong, until she waves hello.
Or is it goodbye. You know, this much
cold, this high, batters the eye

until all it sees is warmth. The girls
lining up crayons before dinner.
Coals orange as a daffodil’s trumpet.

So easy to forget tomorrow’s ash.
In a ghost town, bowls of thin soup
steam on every edge. Nothing

can hurt us. The pioneers. We forget why
we came—but look at that mountain.
Was anything ever so new?

Self Portrait through a Photographer

Cutter Streeby

and you tell me you take your men from different

angles and catch them in your frame and gather

them in your drag : and I imagine you make them

like fish of the sea : you see : natural like this : and

you show me images and images and images and say

look : they are beautiful here and the meat of this

city is plenteous for me : and I ask if you’ve been

captured before : and you show me yourself hung in

the black ropes and dancing and say : this is aerial

silk : the art of suspension : and you read these lines

over my shoulder and it is dark in the city and your

studio is cold tonight and the light from my

computer is blue over us and alma inversa you say :

alma inversa : these men are not animals ayes : but

people I love in the moment I am with them :

te ves en mis llamas : you see yourself in my flames

Portrait of Jan Peart

Cutter Streeby

and if : at the foundation of all there lay only a

wildly seething power which writhing produced

everything that is great : if a bottomless void : never

satiated : lay hidden beneath all : what then would

life be : like Feynman said : nature uses only the

longest threads : : and your passion in this image

tells me take Isaac to Moriah and leave him as a

burnt offering on the mountain : : his body a

question : do all of our dead cease to exist in the

head : in the heart : in the hand of the living : and

the answer the same : unequivocally : no : : a

woman told me once : camino bailando y con tus

palabras : I walk dancing and your words surround

me and turn me and turn me around and around :

vueltas y vueltas y vueltas y cuando paro : and when

I stop : ya no se donde estoy : I can no longer say

where I am : : you told me once : if you’re

passionate burn it : be good at suffering : and after

this flower I can say only one thing : we’re at the

very beginning of the human race : and the sky is

black for a reason